


kintsugi

by intertwingular



Series: trophy husband au [1]
Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Akechi Goro Lives, F/M, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Secret Santa 2k17, haru is a bossass bitch fight me, lots of hickeys too i guess, solve all ur problem with threesomes, sweats bc this is going to be a series i can feel it, trophy husband au, um...implied smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:19:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: n.the art of repairing pottery with gold to make it even more beautiful, despite it's flaws. an embracing of its flaws in a way that makes the work more beautiful.





	kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> this was a secret santa gift on a discord server! surprise, tweetus, i was your secret santa. i hope this is everything you wished for - and a very merry holidays to you.

It starts during their third year in high school – Haru is at Todai, studying business, and Akira meets her once a month for coffee at LeBlanc. It’s an easy rhythm to fall into, something simpler and sweeter than the kind he maintains at home in Inaba. Goro joins them a few months into it, scars still scabbing over from their final encounter in the Metaverse.

Haru was always the most forgiving of them all – Akira supposes that it’s not much of a surprise that she takes to Goro easier than the rest of the Phantom Thieves; there’s a certain strength that she has, something that allows her to forgive easier than the rest of them, pieced together as they are.

Coffee turns into lunch, into dinner, into – Haru’s lips on Goro’s, someone’s hands in Akira’s hair, scratchy sheets, dusty after months of disuse – something. Akira’s not sure what to call it, but he misses his train back to Inaba that night, and wakes to catch the earliest one the next morning.

Haru smooths his unruly hair behind his ears, untangling it from the studs in his ears, the cuffs around the shells of his ears, and Goro unwinds the red scarf from his beige peacoat and around the bruise-bright marks on Akira’s neck. His eyes are drawn to the pink of Haru’s lips, the way her hair is flattened on one side, the way that the same bruise-bright marks form a trail down the collar of her blouse; to the way Goro’s eyes are brighter than they have been in months, to the blood red of his mouth, and the same marks, possessive and dark around his jaw and neck.

Akira isn’t quite sure what’s going on – but he isn’t complaining. Haru smooths down his hair again, a demure smile flittering across her petal pink lips, something more wicked in her eyes, and presses an equally sugar sweet kiss to his jaw. Goro simply raises an eyebrow and straightens his half-buttoned shirt.

“Come visit again soon, Akira,” Haru says. “We’ll meet for a movie next time.”

Akira meets Goro’s eyes for a moment – and Goro shrugs, looking equally as run over as Akira feels, and tilts forward, as quick on his feet as always, pressing a light peck to Akira’s forehead.

“We’ll make coffee again,” he murmurs, stepping back to button his shirt up. The purple-red of the possessive marks disappears behind the starched white of his button down, and then behind the blindingly green argyle sweater vest Akira wishes he could burn. Something in his stomach lurches, half-satisfied, yet oddly disappointed as the markings disappear.

Not that Akira really thinks about it – he has classes to pass, university applications to send out, and the train is coming fast towards him. Inaba is miles away, in the heart of the countryside, and Shibuya is…far.

Akira smiles at Haru and Goro, and nods, shrugging his sweatshirt on over his wrinkled turtleneck. “I’ll text you,” he says.

“Don’t you forget!” Haru calls after him, and the lurching in Akira’s stomach settles.

He’s no stranger to sex – Inaba is a countryside town, but even then, there are cities nearby, closer by train than Shibuya, and even then, if you look hard enough, you can find plenty of people willing to shack up with a high school student, even one with a criminal record. _Especially_ with a criminal record. Nakamura Takeshi had seemed eager enough, even in light of Akira’s perceived assault charge.

This doesn’t feel like that. As Akira boards the train, he runs his hand across the soft ruby red cashmere of Goro’s scarf, and swears for a moment, that he can still feel the warmth from Haru’s hands working through his hair, tracing invisible patterns across his forehead and down the planes of his chest.

He goes a little red when his neck aches as he turns to look out the window to watch the scenery whizz past, changing from black cityscapes to green and ochre countryside. The scarf covers what bruise purple marks his gray turtleneck cannot, but still, the evidence that _can_ be seen is scandalous enough.

Akira snakes a hand underneath the scarlet fabric of the scarf, and presses a finger into the center of the largest bruise, and smiles sharply at the ache. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel their teeth on him, bruising and possessive. He knows there’s one scabbing bite mark, where someone bit just a _little_ too hard and drew blood. It feels a little like being owned – in a more heartwarming way than the term normally implies, and Akira settles hands in his lap, closing his eyes as the countryside flies by outside the train window.

And it continues that way – they graduate high school, Goro goes onto Todai and so does Akira. They continue this way, and they grow and move forwards in the manner they always have. Akira wears turtlenecks every Monday to Wednesday of the week, no matter the weather, and Saturday is – special. Saturdays are spent in Haru’s apartment, or loitering in LeBlanc, Akira behind the counter like they really are back in high school, stealing hearts and making national news.

Sojiro takes one look at their arrangement, Haru and Goro lounging at the counter one balmy Saturday morning, and shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Man the counter on Saturdays,” he tells Akira, gruff as always, “I’m not getting involved in whatever you three have going on.”

Haru lets out an undignified snort-giggle into her hand after Sojiro leaves out the back door for a smoke, and Goro shakes his head, sighing with all the aplomb of a defeated man. “Well, you heard him,” Haru chides, crossing one leg over another – and Akira tracks the movement with his eyes, marveling at the grace she has long since grown into – propping her chin up with one hand. “We’ll wait. Ah, but I’d like a café au lait first, please.”

Goro shakes his head, exasperated and fond, waving a gloved hand in the air. “I’ll take a red eye.”

Akira hip checks a cabinet closed, scooping coffee grounds into the percolators. “Right away,” he murmurs, and smiles at them from across the counter.

Which brings them to this – glittering diamond chandeliers in a ballroom larger than two school gyms put together – almost as large as the foyer of Sae’s casino Palace, and Haru’s lace-gloved hand perched daintily in the crook of Akira’s elbow. His hair is slicked back, unruly curls out of his eyes for once in his life, black tie tucked into his vest – and Haru is laughing with a heavyset businessman, undoubtedly twice their age, sparkling flute of champagne held between two of her fingers.

Akira searches the ballroom for a hint of Goro’s bland white vest, crisp and pressed as it always is, as Haru leads him around the circuit of the ballroom.  
“Found him yet?” She whispers, gloved hand having moved from the crook of his elbow to his hip, velvet-clad arm snaked around his waist. Her fingers beat a rapid staccato on his hipbone, fluttering and butterfly light. Haru takes a sip from her flute of champagne, before setting it down on a passing waiter’s tray, still half-full and bubbling away cheerfully beneath the blindingly bright lights.

“Mmm, not yet,” Akira replies, snagging two glasses of white wine from another waiter. He passes the other glass to Haru, taking a long drink from his own glass.

Haru swirls the wine around in the wide rimmed glass, and laughs, quiet and sweet. “We’d better find him before you get drunk, then.”

Akira presses a gloved hand to his chest, black leather bright against the scarlet red of his collared shirt. He gasps quietly, and shakes his head. “How _could_ you,” he whisper-yells, mock offended, “I have a better alcohol tolerance than that.”

Haru shakes her head. “Chicago, December 12th,” she reminds him, and takes a sip of her wine. “Oh, pinot gris! Thank you.”

Akira hums a response, before tugging on her hand as he spots Goro – bright white against pitch black, monochrome as always, across the room, trapped in a conversation with the elderly wife of some important member of society. “Found him.”

“Excellent,” Haru declares, and they begin to cross the ballroom floor. Her skirt flares out behind her, a blood red fan of scarlet velvet, moving with her steps – and Akira appreciates the figure she cuts, moving through the crowds in the ballroom like some biblical figure parting the seas. “I’ve shown you off enough tonight, I think.”

Clearly, Goro agrees, and they spirit away from the ballroom, back to their apartment. It’s lived in now, Goro’s leather briefcase in the corner at the foot of the coat stand, Haru’s business heels, cream and leather, heels five inches tall and as sharp as daggers on the shoe rack, and Akira’s latest project spread across the stupidly long dining room table.

Tonight is not a slow affair, they move quickly and with all the barely held back ferocity of starving men – Haru has been out of town for business for nearly a month now, and Goro held back at the DA, consulting on a stringent of serial killings ravaging the city. Tomorrow night, they’ll take the time to be gentle, soft touches and silk sheets, but tonight, Akira undoes his Goro’s tie with a desperate fervor, and Goro begins to slip the velvet from Haru’s milk-pale shoulders with barely a word spoken between them in their hurry.

The bites and bruises are already beginning to form, and Akira isn’t sure how they ended up like this, three children out of nine, from barely scabbed over wounds, still bleeding at the seams, to _this,_ something still cracked but glittering, diamond bright and oddly perfect.

Someone bites into the curve where Akira’s neck meets the slope of his shoulders, someone’s hand comes to rest in his hair, on his hips, someone tilts his head to meet theirs, lips meeting lips, and Akira sighs into it. A little odd, how they all feel together, but perfect all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> sticks my leg out. hickeys, man. 
> 
> find me on my [tumblr!](shangyang.tumblr.com)


End file.
